Forelock Holmes, A Pony In Pink
by The Wholocked Brony
Summary: Mystery, genius, and of course, magic! What more can you ask for in a mystery book? Oh I know, ponies! A re-write of BBC's second greatest TV show, in Equestria. And, of course, we start with A Pony in Pink. Disclaimer up front: I don't own MLP or Sherlock, I don't even own most of the character names, I only own my version of the idea, and the cover art. The game, readers, is on!
1. Part 1

Forelock Holmes

_A Pony in Pink Part 1_

** I have been rather busy with Doctor Whooves and yet I find myself with spare time. So, I perused the archives and found the MLP Sherlock crossovers. Only one appealed to me, the pony-fied version of Sherlock (by a different name of course). But it was unfinished and incorrect to the MLP world. Too few references and too many mistakes. So, in this extra time, I will be pursuing a new story. It's elementary my dear readers. But don't worry, Doctor Whooves will stay in motion.  
**

** I've borrowed a "few" names from Pony in a Box Productions, modified the characters just smidge to fit Equestria of course, but this is and most likely will stay, Sherlock.**

** And a history note, this is fifty years after FiM, so technology is more advanced and stuff has happened. Cell phones, guns, no cars though, but science is almost up to ours. Trying to make it close as I can to the actual show.**

Hoofdon, one of the largest cities in Equestria. Ponies say it is the most peaceful as well. But they are wrong, very, very, wrong. Because under the screen of colorful magical ponies, is murder, scandal, and evil seen almost nowhere else in the peaceful world of Equestria. This is the side of the world, where ponies aren't the most happy, they aren't the most fit, and they most certainly not the most harmonious.

For instance, Doctor John Trottson, an light tan earth stallion who was once a member of the Royal guard sent back home to Hoofdon after a terrible injury put him out of the job. Appearance: tan coat as said above, a shade lighter short but spiky hair, brown eyes, and a red cross cutie mark on top of a pair of crossed swords. Field doctor for the royal guard.

How had he been injured? It had been in the Changeling attack, no not the Canterlot Wedding attack, since then there had been more attacks than anypony had ever seen ever. He was caught in the worst of these attacks, captured and held hostage. He was brought back starved, dehydrated, and badly injured. His front left leg never quite healed right, it still was stiff and even painful to move.

That battle left him traumatized and gave him horrible nightmares that not even Princess Luna knew how to stop. One night, after a fit of these nightmares, John simply sat on his bed. He would not be sleeping again that night. He looked up and glared at the brace he had to wear to walk. It was clunky and uncomfortable, and he hated it.

A few hours later, the sun rose over Hoofdon. Outside was the hustle bustle of normal life, inside the little room was John Trottson, sitting at his desk, laptop open. The page it had automatically opened to was his blog, "The Personal Blog of Dr. John Trottson." But the actual entry, was empty. His psychotherapist had told him more than once to blog often, set up a routine, talk about anything and everything that happened to him. But what was there to talk about when nothing ever happened to you?

**Opening montage**

October 12th, down by the train station, a well-dressed, middle aged business stallion walked across the concourse of the busy Hoofdon railway station. He was talking into his mobile phone with his secretary back at the office.

"What d'you mean he took the coach?" he demanded.

"_He went to Canterlot," _his secretary replied, "_I'm sorry, you need to get a cab."_

"I never get cabs," the stallion replied. There was a moment of silence before the secretary whispered: "_I love you,"_ into the phone.

"When?" asked the stallion. The secretary giggled before telling him to get a cab. The business stallion smiled, hung up the cellphone, and hailed for a taxi coach.

Sometime later, the same stallion was cornered in a room, his back to a window that appeared to be many many stories above the ground. He had a small glass bottle in his hoof, with three large red and white pills in it. He slowly unscrewed the cap, and with a terrified nervous swallow, he downed the pill.

His body was found a few hours later, dead.

* * *

November 26th, two colts in their late teens, a Pegasus and an earth pony, were running home through the rain. One had an umbrella, the other was trying to shield himself with his wings. They tried to hail a taxi coach but it drove right past them.

"I'll be back in two minutes mate!" the Pegasus yelled before turning and walking away.

"What?"

"Going to get my mum's umbrella!"

"You could just share mine!"

"Two minutes 'kay?" and he turned and ran. The earth pony waited, he waited for a lot longer than two minutes for his friend to return. And when it passed the fifteen minute mark, he turned and followed.

But his friend was nowhere near home. He was in a stadium, sitting in the top box sobbing. Because in his hooves, was a bottle of red and white pills. He slowly unscrewed the lid, and with shaking hooves, swallowed a pill.

The next day, the newspaper headline read this: Colt of 18, Kills Himself inside Sports Center.

* * *

January 27th, at a public club in downtown Hoofdon, a wild party for the MP Lickity Split was going full swing with pounding music and flashing lights. Two of Split's aides were chatting at a table away from the chaos.

"Is she still dancing?" asked one.

"Yeah, if you can call it that," the other replied.

"Did you get her bag?" He lifted up the red purse, "Got it." The first aide looked out into the dancing crowd, and frowned.

"Where is she?" Lickity Split had long since gone outside in hope for a break from the noise. And after losing her purse? She just wanted to go home. So she started walking.

But instead of finding herself at 314 E Thunder street, she was behind some building sobbing hysterically. As she cried, she slowly reached for the tiny bottle of pills that sat in front of her on the ground. She was found dead the next day.

* * *

Police Press Conference, good for news, not well for the detectives themselves. DI Lestrade and his assistant Sally Donovan were in the spotlight, presenting what they knew about the suicides.

Lestrade was an earth pony, silver mane, darker grey coat, wearing a black suit for the conference. Donovan, a Pegasus with dark maroon hair and an almost pink red coat.

"The body of Lickity Split, Junior MP for Transport," Donovan began, "was found late last night behind a building in Greater Hoofdon. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles that of Sir New Deal and Cloudy Wind. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective inspector Lestrade will take questions now." One of the reporters spoke immediately.

"Detective inspector, how can suicides be linked?" she asked.

"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of-"

"But you can't have serial suicides," the reported interrupted.

"Well apparently you can," Lestrade replied. Another reporter asked, "These three ponies: there's nothing to link them?"

"There's no link to be found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one-" Suddenly everponys' mobile phone went off. Each with the same message: Wrong! Donovan checked her phone and saw the same message.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," she said.

"Just says, wrong," the first reported noted.

'Yeah well, ignore them. Okay if there are no more questions for DI Lestrade I'm going to bring this session to a close."

"But if they're suicides what're you investigating?" asked the second reporter.

"Is I said, these, these suicides are _clearly_ linked. Um, it's and, an unusual situation. We've got our best ponies investigating." Another trill as all the phones went off once more, with the same message: Wrong!

"Okay, one more question," Donovan said, annoyed with the insistent texts.

"Is there any chance that these are murders?" asked the third reporter, "and if they are, how do is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I, I know that you all like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides," Lestrade insisted, "We know the difference. The, um, poison was clearly self-administered."

"But if they are murders," continued the reporter, "how do ponies keep themselves safe?"

"Don't commit suicide," the DI snapped. The reporter looked at him in surprise before he continued. "Obviously this is a frightening time for ponies, but all anypony has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." The mobiles sang for a third and final time, most of the phones said wrong, but Lestrade's read:

You know where to find me.

FH.

Lestrade groaned exasperated, shoved the phone into his pocket, stood up, and left the conference with a quiet "Thank you."

Shortly afterward, he and Donovan were back at New Trottland Yard.

"You've got to stop him doing that," Donovan insisted, "He's making us look like idiots."

"Well if you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," Lestrade replied before storming off.

* * *

In the Square Park (don't ask why it's called that, I don't know) John Trottson decided to go for a walk. Well, it was more of a limp, the brace making him slower when he walked. He passed by a Pegasus stallion, who was sitting on a bench enjoying a cup of coffee. When John passed by, the stallion looked up, smiled in surprise and called after him.

"John!" he called, getting his things and trotting over, "John Trottson!" John turned and looked at the stallion.

"Stand, Mike Stand?" he asked, "We were at Bart's together." Referencing the hospital John had gone to learn how to be a field medic.

"Oh yeah, sorry, Mike," they shook hooves, "Hello."

"It's been a long time eh?"

"Yeah."

"I heard you became a soldier, that you were being attacked by Changelings, what happened to you?" asked Mike, gesturing to the brace.

"Changelings," John replied. A little later, they both came back with to-go coffee and sat on the bench chatting idly.

"Are you still at Bart's then?" asked John, unaware of the sympathetic glances he kept getting.

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be," Mike sighed, "I hate them!" they both laughed at that one.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford Hoofdon on a soldiers' pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Trottson I know."

"Yeah I'm not the…" He stopped. Mike looked away awkwardly as John put the coffee down and tried to get his good hoof to stop shaking. Mike looked back over, "Couldn't Henry help?"

"Yeah like that's going to happen," John replied sarcastically.

"'I dunno, get a flat share or something?"

"Come on, who'd want me as a flatmate?" Mike chuckled thoughtfully.

"What?"

"Well, you're the second pony to say that to me to-day."

"Who was the first?"

* * *

Down in the morgue of the nearby Bartholomew's Hospital, a unicorn was at work. Dark grey coat, very messy and curly black hair, steel grey eyes, and a cutie mark of a skull and magnifying glass. He was wearing a large black coat, black gloves, and a dark blue scarf. This was Forelock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective and expert crime scientist. Right then, he was examining how long it takes for bruises to form on a corpse.

"How fresh?" he asked the Morgue assistant Mousy Hooper. An earth mare with mouse brown hair, cream coat and a white lab coat hiding her Red Cross cutie mark.

"Just in," she relied. "Sixty seven, natural causes. He used to work here, nice guy." The black body bag was zipped back up; Forelock turned to Mousey and smiled.

"Fine, we'll start with the riding crop." The corpse was moved into an operating room where Forelock, no longer wearing the jacket gloves or scarf just a black suit jacket, began to beat it with a riding crop. Mousey watch from an observation room nearby, she kept wincing with each slap of the whip. Each whack became harder and faster until it was practically a blur. But that was enough, he was finished, and then Mousey came in.

"So, bad day was it?" she said jokingly. Forelock, ignoring her banter, pulled out a small notebook and pen and began writing notes.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," he instructed, "A stallion's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished," Mousey began nervously. Forelock glanced at her, and then did a quick double take.

"Are you wearing lipstick?" he asked, "You weren't wearing it before."

"I uh, I refreshed a bit," she stuttered. He went back to writing in his notebook.

"Sorry, you were saying?" Mousey took a deep breath, worked up the courage and said: "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Forelock put his notebook away then replied, "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." And he turned and left the room.

"…Okay." Was all a confused Mousey could say.

* * *

When Mike and John entered the lab, Forelock was down at the end, using his magic to squeeze a pipet onto a microscope slide. He glanced up at them before continuing. John limped into the room, staring at the massive amounts of scientific equipment covering every available surface. Microscopes, centrifuges, beakers and bottles, enough for a team of scientists, but just one?

"Well, bit different from my day," he noted.

"You've no idea," Mike added with a chuckle, taking a seat diagonal from Forelock.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," the unicorn asked.

"What's wrong with the land-line?" asked Mike.

"I prefer to text," Forelock replied.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." John reached into his own jacket and pulled out a small red smart phone.

"Here use mine," John said, holding out his phone. Forelock looked up at him.

"Oh, thank you." He stood up and walked over. Taking the phone from john he flipped it open and began texting rapidly.

"Changelings or Discord?" Forelock asked suddenly. John glanced at Mike confused, his old friend just smiled knowingly.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Changelings or Discord?" he asked, glancing at John.

"Changelings. sorry, how did you-"

"Ah, Mousey, coffee," Forelock handed John his phone then took the cup from the new mare's hoof. He did a double take, "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," she replied with an awkward smile. Forelock turned, and walked back to his station.

"Really? I thought it was an improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He took a sip of the coffee, and grimaced at the taste.

"…Okay," and she left.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Forelock asked suddenly. John glanced at Mike, silently asking: "is he talking to me?" Mike nodded.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Holmes replied, typing noted on an open laptop, "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He glanced up at Trottson, "Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." False smile, then back to work. John stared at him blankly for a moment, then looked once again at Mike.

"Oh, you… you told him about me?"

"Not a word," the Pegasus replied.

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John asked.

"I did," Forelock replied as he slipped on his large black coat and dark blue scarf, "Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult stallion to find a flat mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from action in the Royal guard. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about the Guard?" Forelock ignored the question and checked his mobile.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central Hoofdon. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He turned and walked past John to the door. John turned to look at him. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" The unicorn stopped half way out the door, and stepped back.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Forelock looked at John for a moment before speaking.

"I know you're a field doctor and you've been sent home on account of injury due to a recent Changeling attack. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- possible because he's an salt-o-holic (salt is a pony's beer) or because he recently left his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you limp is psychosomatic- Quite correctly I'm afraid," Forelock gave him a false smile, "I think that's enough to go on with, don't you?" He turned and left the room, but a moment later leaned back in.

"The name's Forelock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street," he winked, "Afternoon!" And he left, leaving behind a dumbstruck earth pony medical doctor and his smug friend. John looked at Mike, jaw still hanging in disbelief.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

* * *

When John Trottson returned home that night, he took out his mobile and checked the recently sent messages, more specifically the one Forelock Holmes had sent. It read:

If brother has green ladder,

Arrest brother.

FH

John looked at the message for a moment more, then looked across the room to his closed laptop. He got to his hooves, slowly walked over to the desk, and sat down. He opened the flat-ish computer and opened a search engine called Quest. After another moment of thinking, he typed "Forelock Holmes" into the search box. Enter.

* * *

The next day, or, to rephrase that, the next evening, John Trottson found himself limping through Hoofdon down Baker Street. Keeping an eye on the door numbers. As he walked up to 221 B, a black taxi coach pulled up by the curb. Out stepped Forelock Holmes after handing a few bits to the driver. The cab drove off and Forelock walked towards the flat.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John greeted him.

"Forelock, please," he insisted, they shook hooves.

"Well, this is a prime spot," John noted, "must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. River, the land-mare, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death, I was able to help out," Forelock explained, albeit a bit boastfully.

"You stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." The door opened and out stepped the land-mare, Mrs. River. A middle aged Pegasus with very curly aqua mane and tail and a sky blue coat, her cutie mark was a broom mid-sweep, and she was wearing a purple long sleeve dress.

"Forelock, hello," they hugged briefly.

"Mrs. River, Doctor John Trottson."

"Hello."

"How do you do?" Mrs. River stepped aside and motioned them in, "Come in, please." The two stallions stepped inside and she closed the door behind them. Holmes immediately started up the stairs, John followed him just a bit slower. Forelock waited to go in until John had joined him at the top of the stairs.

The inside of the flat was quite nice, if it hadn't had boxes and boxes of stuff everywhere. The living room was good sized, with two armchairs, a couch against the wall to the right, and a fireplace. The kitchen was directly around the corner, and it looked very similar to Forelock's lab back at Bart's, science equipment on every available surface.

"Well, this could be very nice," John admitted, looking about, "Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Forelock agreed, looking around the flat happily, "Yes my thoughts precisely." They said the next part simultaneously.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-oh," John paused, realizing what Forelock was saying. "So this is all…"

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He walked across the room and started to half-heartedly tidy up. John spotted something on the fireplace, "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Forelock replied removing his jacket, "When I say 'Friend'…" Mrs. River stepped into the room.

"What do you think Doctor Trottson?" she asked picking up a left over teacup, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," he replied. Mrs. River winked before trotting into the kitchen/dining room and complaining about the mess Forelock had made on the table. John shuffled his hooves awkwardly, then went over to one of the armchairs, fluffed the pillow, and sat down. He looked across at Forelock who was still tidying.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." He stopped cleaning and looked at John.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." Holmes smiled proudly.

"What did you think?" Trottson gave him a "you've got to be kidding me" type of look.

"You claimed to be able to identify a software writer by his tie and a train engineer by one of his front hooves."

"Yes. And I can read your military record in your face and your leg, and your brother's habits by your mobile phone."

"How?" asked John. Forelock just smiled and went back to cleaning.

"What about these suicides then Forelock?" asked Mrs. River, walking into the room with a newspaper. "I thought that'd be right up your alley." Forelock, not entirely listening, walked over to the window. "Three exactly the same."

"Four," Holmes replied. He looked outside as a familiar face stepped out of a police coach and ran into 221b. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." There was a thundering of hooves as DI Lestrade raced up the stairs into the flat.

"Where?" asked Forelock.

"Brixton, Laurenston Gardens," the DI answered.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Bunsen."

"Bunsen won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?"

"Not in the police coach, I'll be right behind." Lestrade nodded, said "thank you" and left. Forelock waited until there was the noise of the front door shutting, then he leapt into the air with a cry of "Brilliant!"

"Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note," he grabbed his coat and scarf as he danced about happily. He turned and headed for the kitchen.

"Mrs. River, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your land-mare dear not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John have a cup of tea make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" And he rushed out the kitchen door.

"Look at him all dashing about," said Mrs. River, "My husband was the same way. But your more the sitting down type I can tell." She turned towards the kitchen. "I'll make you that tea, you rest your hoof."

"Damn my hoof!" John yelled, instinctively. "Sorry I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…" he waved his braced hoof for emphasis.

"I understand dear, my wings just like that." She turned to leave again.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper." And she left. John sat there for a moment, then he picked up Mrs. River's discarded newspaper. It was an article about the first three suicides, with a photo of the DI who'd just dashed in. But before he could read further, a voice caught him off guard.

"You're a doctor," Forelock Holmes said, leaning in the doorway, "In fact, you're a Field doctor."

"Yes," John Trottson replied, getting to his hooves.

"Any good?" asked the detective.

"Very good," the doctor replied.

"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."

"Mm-hm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a life time. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh-ho yes." Forelock spun around and left the flat, new assistant in tow. John called out as they left: "Sorry Mrs. River, I'll skip the tea! Heading out!"

"Both of you?" she asked at the bottom of the stairs. Holmes had almost reached the door but he turned around and walked back to her.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting around when something fun is going on!" He hugged her quickly then turned back to the door.

"Look at you, all happy, it's not decent," Mrs. River complained, but she couldn't help smiling as they walked out into the street.

"Who cares about decent," asked Forelock, "The game, Mrs. River, is on!" When they stepped out onto the street, Forelock raised a hoof and called: "Taxi!" almost immediately one of the black coaches rumbled up to the curb. He opened the door and they climbed in, headed for Brixton.

* * *

The first half of the drive was silent, mostly because Forelock was busy on his smartphone. John kept stealing nervous glances at the stallion he was following to who knows where to investigate a suicide. Eventually, Forelock noticed these sideways glances and put the phone down.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene," Forelock replied, "Next?"

"Who are you, and what do you do?" asked John, curious.

"What do you think?" Hesitantly, John replied, "I'd say private detective."

"But?"

"but the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs," said John, oblivious to who he was talking to. Forelock threw him a "seriously?" look

"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said 'Changelings or Discord.' You seemed surprised."

"Yes how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw.

[Flashback to yesterday in the laboratory]

Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room…

"Bit different from my day,"

Said trained at Bart's, so military doctor- obvious. Your tanned except for under your jacket. You've been doing things outside but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan, militaries in Equestria only fighting when Changelings or Discord attack-

[end of flashback]

"so it had to be one of those two," he said, partly finished. There was a brief moment of stunned silence.

"You said I had a therapist," John continued.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Forelock said nonchalantly, "Then there's your brother." He held out his hoof for the phone, John pulled it out and showed it to him.

"Your phone, it's expensive. E-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare- you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then." Forelock took the phone and held it in the air with magic. (Yep, I'm guessing at least 50% of you forgot he was a unicorn eh?)

"Scratches, not on many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The stallion sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving," John supplied. The phone was turned over revealing a message on the back that said:

Henry Trottson

From Bella

XXX

"Henry Trottson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young stallion's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a soldier who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is.

"Now Bella, who's Bella? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife not mare friend. She must've given it to him recently- this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then- six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it, ponies do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants to keep in touch."

"You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you won't go to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"Ho,w can you possibly know, about the drinking?" asked John. Forelock smiled, "Shot in the dark, good one though. Power connection: tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge but his hooves are shaking. You never see those on a sober stallion's phone, never see a drained without them." He handed the phone back.

"There you go, you see- you were right," said Forelock Holmes.

"I was right? Right about what?

"The police don't consult amateurs." The was another moment of brief silence.

"That…" John began, pocketing his phone, "Was, amazing." Forelock looked at him, surprised by the sudden compliment.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. That was extraordinary absolutely extraordinary."

"That's not what ponies normally say."

"What do ponies normally say?"

"'Shut up.'" John couldn't help but smile as they pulled up to Laurenston Gardens. Forelock paid the cabbie as they stepped out.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked as they trotted towards the crime scene.

"Henry and I don't get on, never have," John said, limping along side Forelock, "Bella and Henry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce; and Henry's a salty." (Like I said earlier, salt=beer or alcohol in Equestria. Drained=drunk, salty=alcoholic/drinker, etc.)

"Spot on then," Holmes confirmed, looking quite pleased with himself, "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Henry's short for Henrietta" Forelock stopped dead in his tracks. .

"Henry's your sister."

"Look, what exactly am I here for?" asked John, confused.

"Sister!" Forelock said furiously, before continuing to walk.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something," the consulting detective muttered to himself as they approached the caution tape outlining the crime scene.

"Hello Freak," Sergeant Sally Donovan said, waiting for them.

"I'm here to see Detective inspector Lestrade," Forelock replied, oblivious to the snide nickname.

"Why?" asked Donovan.

"I was invited."

"_Why_?"

"I think he wants me to take a look," Forelock replied sarcastically.

"Well you know what I think don't you?"

"Always Sally," he said ducking under the tape. He stopped and took a whiff of the air, "I also know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't- who's this?" asked Donovan, dodging the remark.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Trottson," Forelock replied, "Doctor Trottson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, old friend." He said the last part very sarcastically.

"A colleague?" repeated Donovan, "And how do you get a colleague?" She turned to John, "What, did this one follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just-"

"No," Forelock interrupted lifting the tape so John could walk under. As he did, Donovan pulled out her radio.

"Freak's here, bringing him in," she said as they walked up. Forelock kept looking around, taking everything in, hoofprints in the dirt, smells like perfume and sweat; he kept track of everything, because anything could be important. Another stallion came out of the house as they walked up.

"Ah, Bunsen. Here we are again," Forelock greeted with mock cheer. The forensics earth pony just glared back.

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated," Bunsen warned, "Are we clear on that?" Forelock smelled the air again and replied, "Quite clear, and was your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somepony told you," he scoffed.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for stallions."

"Well, of course it's for stallions! I'm wearing it!"

"So's sergeant Donovan." Bunsen turned around and shared a shocked look with her. Forelock sniffed again, "And I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything," Forelock replied walking past him, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over," he looked back at them, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees." Bunsen and Donovan stared at him in horror, Forelock smiled smugly then enter the house. John followed him into the house shortly after.

The house itself was empty, run down, and in general, old. It must've been one of those flat buildings because it had lots of rooms with kitchen outlets (water pipes) and a spiral staircase in the center leading up three floors. Ponies of all sorts were in every room, photography, searching for clues, doing police stuff. One room had all sorts of, I don't know what to call it, sterile costumes. You had to wear them in the actual crime scene. Blue latex coveralls, DI Lestrade was slipping one on when the detective and assistant entered the room.

"You'll need to wear one of these," Forelock told John, referring to the pile of blue suits.

"Who's this?" asked Lestrade.

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said, he's with me." John glanced over to Forelock, who wasn't putting on a blue suit but just a pair of gloves.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" he asked. Forelock gave him a stern look as if to say, "Nope!"

"So, where are we?" he asked.

"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.

_To be continued in Part two…_

**Me: and that concludes part one of a Pony in Pink. Don't worry, part two will come soon-ish, updates will be sporadic and random because Sherlock isn't the easiest thing to- *text message signal goes off* Huh?**

**The text: Storygirl90, have you ever noticed that it seems the people who write in the Sherlock archives can use actual grammar? SH**

**ME: Oh Sherlock… He's going to be furious when he finds out about this.  
**


	2. Part 2

Forelock Holmes

_A Pony in Pink Part 2_

**Part two, please enjoy. Hopefully things will go as planned this time. *eyes cell phone suspiciously*. This one took forever to do, it's not easy ponifying a scenes that are barely changeable. **

** And, in case anypony needed a refresher on who is what, Forelock=Sherlock=Unicorn and John=Earth Pony.**

_ "Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked. Forelock gave him a stern look as if to say, "Nope!"_

_"So, where are we?" he asked._

_"Upstairs," Lestrade replied. _And so, with their blue coverall suits and gloves on, with the exception of Forelock that is, Lestrade led them up the spiral staircase to the top floor.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade instructed as they trotted upstairs.

"May need longer," Forelock answered casually.

"Her name's Jewel Song according to her ID cards. We're running them now for contact information. Hasn't been here long, a couple foals found her." They had reached the top floor, top room, it was empty except for a battered old rocking horse in the far left corner. A few pieces of scaffolding equipment were holding up portions of the wall where large holes had been knocked out. The dead unicorn mare, Jewel Song, was lying in the center of the room.

She was wearing a bright pink dress and heels, looked expensive, but the one for her front left hoof was missing. Her coat, skin not clothes, had once been a dark pink-red and her mane was messy and maroon, her dress was hiding her cutie-mark from view.

They entered the room. Forelock glanced at the body, his mind already galloping full speed. John did the same, but he wished he hadn't a moment later. It reminded him of-

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade replied, startled.

"You were thinking, it's annoying." Forelock stepped forward, towards the corpse. He knelt down next to it and began to do what he did best. Deducing by what he saw.

First thing that caught his eye, a message scratched into the floor, RACHE. (why mess with the original?) Done with her left hoof, chipped away at it. Rache, a word from one of the tropic regions, word for revenge. Rache, that message didn't fit right. Forelock thought of a word that was spelled like that, Rachel, just needed an L at the end. Died before she could finish writing it.

The back of her dress shimmered slightly, he felt the fabric, wet. He searched her pockets and pulled out an umbrella, dry. Checked under the dress collar, that was wet too. Was in heavy rain, lots of wind, too much for an umbrella.

Forelock pulled out his miniature slide out magnifying glass and began to check her jewelry. Earring, clean. Bracelet, clean. Necklace, clean. Wedding ring, dirty. Unhappily married, the ring was at least ten years old, unhappily married 10+ years. He pulled it off her horn and examined it. Cleaner inside than outside, regularly removed.

Add all the pieces together, the result: Serial Adulterer.

"Got anything?" asked Lestrade after a moment.

"Not much," Forelock replied, putting the ring back and standing up.

"She's from the coast," Bunsen said, now standing in the doorway, "Rache, means revenge." He didn't say anymore because Forelock had just closed the door in his face.

"Yes thank you for your input," he said pulling out his mobile.

"What, she's not costal?" asked Lestrade.

"No but she's from out of town," Forelock continued, checking the maps on his mobile, "Intended to stay in Hoofdon for one night," he smiled, found the information he needed. "Before returning home to Cardhoof." He pocketed the phone. "So far, obvious."

"Sorry-obvious?" asked John.

"What about the message though?" asked Lestrade. Forelock ignored him and glanced at John.

"Doctor Trottson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body, you're a medical stallion."

"Wait, no!" interjected Lestrade, "We've got a whole team outside."

"They won't work with me," Forelock replied stubbornly.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here!"

"Yes… Because you need me." Lestrade sighed, defeated.

"Yes I do… Celestia help me."

"Doctor Trottson," Forelock repeated. John glanced at Lestrade, "Oh fine, do as he says, help yourself," Lestrade said exasperated. He left the room, telling Bunsen to keep everypony out for a few minutes as he did. They walked over to the body, Forelock crouched down, John lowered himself painfully onto one knee.

"Well?" asked the detective.

"What am I doing here?" whispered the doctor.

"Helping me make a point," Forelock whispered back.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay rent."

"Yeah, well this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a mare lying dead," Trottson said, no longer whispering.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." John rolled his eyes and crouched even lower so he could get a closer look at the dead mare. He leaned in close to her head and took a whiff. Nothing. He straightened up, and pulled off her other front high-heeled shoe, tossing it aside so he could see her skin. After a moment, he put her hoof down.

"Yeah… Asphyxiation, probably," he concluded, "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell anything on her. It could've been a seizure, possibly drugs-"

"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Forelock interjected.

"Or she's one of the suicides," John finished, "the fourth."

"Forelock, I said two minutes, give me anything you got," said DI Lestrade re-entering the room.

"Victim was in her late thirties," Forelock explained standing up, "Professional pony going by her clothes, something in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardhoof today intended to stay in Hoofdon for one night. It's obvious by the size of her suitcase." When Forelock talked, he was very animated. Walking all about and waving his hooves for emphasis, pointing and gesturing to what he was talking about.

"Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lover but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh for Celestia's sake, you're making this up!" Forelock pointed to her horn, and the ring on it.

"Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned except for her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier inside than outside- that means it is regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her horn.

"It's not for work, look at her hooves. She doesn't work with her hooves, so rather what or who does she remove it for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," John complimented, causing Forelock once again to shoot him a surprised look. "Sorry."

"Cardhoof?" inquired Lestrade.

"It's obvious isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me." Forelock looked at both of them, "Oh my, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned back to the corpse. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain the last few hours. No rain anywhere in Hoofdon in that time, under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left hoof pocket but its dry and unused, not just wind strong wind- too strong for an umbrella.

"We know from her suitcase she was intending to stay overnight, but she couldn't have traveled over two or three hours because her jacket still hasn't dried. So, where has there been wind and rain in that travel time?" he pulled out his mobile and held it up for the DI, "Carhoof."

"That's fantastic," John said. Forelock looked at him, then said quietly, "D'you know you're saying that aloud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's… fine."

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" asked Lestrade. Forelock spun around, looking for it.

"Yes, where is it? She must've had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No she was leaving an angry letter nopony could read, of course she was writing Rachel," Forelock replied sarcastically, "Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" asked Lestrade.

"Back right hoof, tiny splash marks on her right leg not present on the left," Forelock explained pointing at the small spray of mud, "She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her on her right side. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case going by the spread. Small case, mare this clothes conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she intended to stay one night." He knelt next to the corpse again, "Now where is it? What've you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade replied. Forelock slowly looked back up at the DI, "Say that again."

"There wasn't a suitcase, there was never a case." Forelock leapt back up and ran past Lestrade, "Suitcase! Did anypony find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Forelock there was no case!" Lestrade yelled, also coming out of the room, John following. Forelock slowed down but he kept going down stairs.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew and swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs even you lot couldn't miss them!"

"Right, thanks, and?"

"It's murder!" Forelock replied, stopping on a landing one floor down, "All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides they're killings- serial killings." He smiled, "We've got ourselves a serial killer! I love those, there's always something to look forward to!" Forelock continued down the stairs.

"Why are you saying that?" called Lestrade. Forelock stopped again and called up to them: "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Somepony else was here, and they took her case!" The quietly more to himself he added, "So the killer must've driven her here, forgot the case was in the coach."

"She could've checked into a hotel," John offered, "Left her case there."

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never leave any hotel with her mane still looking-" he stopped. "Oh." Then it hit him, "Oh!" He jumped up in delight, smiling like crazy.

"Forelock?" called John.

"What, what is it?" asked Lestrade.

"Serial killers are always hard," he muttered, "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"We're done waiting!" Forelock cried as he rushed down the stairs, "Look at her really look. Hello, we've got a mistake. Get on to Cardhoof, find jewel Song's family and friends, find Rachel!" Forelock ran off the stairs and disappeared from view.

"Of course, but, what mistake?" Forelock ran back to the base of the stairs and yelled: "PINK!" before running of to Celestia knows where. The forensics team, which had been waiting for quite some time, trotted up the stairs and began to do their job, Lestrade followed them, leaving John standing at the top of the stairs.

* * *

John Trottson left the house five minutes later, no longer wearing the blue coverall but back in his brown jacket. He limped outside and looked around for Forelock Holmes, but the consulting detective was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Donovan noticed him looking around and called: "He's gone."

"Who, Forelock Holmes?"

"Yeah," Sally replied, "he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" asked John.

"Didn't look like it." John nodded, "Right." He looked around, unsure of what to do. He turned back to Donovan, "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton," the sergeant replied.

"Right, uh, do you know where I could get a cab?" he asked. Donovan stepped over and lifted the police tape.

"Try the main road," she suggested. John nodded his thanks and ducked under the tape.

"But you're not his friend," she said, John turned to look at her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm… I'm nopony," Trottson replied, "I just met him."

"Okay, bit of advice then, stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything, he likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he enjoys it. And you know what? One day, showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Forelock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath," she replied simply, "And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" somepony called from the house.

"Coming!" she yelled back, she turned and walked away. Not before warning John for a third time to stay away from Forelock Holmes. He turned, and started to slowly walk towards the main road. But, as he passed a red public call box, it started to ring. John ignored it and kept walking.

When he reached the road, he tried to hail a taxi. Three times, but none of them pulled over and let him in.

"Taxi!" he called again, for a fourth time. The black coach just drove on by. John groaned in frustration and kept walking. Suddenly, a ringing caught his attention. A payphone inside a nearby café was ringing, right as he passed by. He watched, a worker in the café tried to pick it up, but it stopped ringing. John shook of the slight unease and continued walking.

He passed yet another payphone, and it started ringing. Finally, John's curiosity peaked and he opened the red phone box. He stepped inside and pulled the silver phone off.

"Hello?"

"_There is a security camera on the building to your left,"_ a stallion's voice said, "_Do you see it?"_ John frowned, "Who is this? Who's speaking?"

"_Do you see the camera Doctor Trottson?_" asked the voice. John rolled his eyes, then looked up at the building, spotting the white camera instantly.

"Yeah, I see it."

"_Watch."_ The camera twitched, then looked away from the red phone box.

"_There is another camera on the building opposite you, do you see it?_" asked the voice. John spotted the camera, just in time to see it swivel away. "_And finally, at the top of the building opposite you."_ The third camera turned away as well.

"How're you doing this?" asked John. A black coach, not a taxi, pulled up to the curb.

"_Get into the coach Doctor Trottson. I would make some kind of threat but, I'm sure your situation is quite clear._" John put the phone back onto the machine, and looked outside. He sighed, what had he gotten himself into?

John Trottson did get into the coach, it immediately drove off at full speed. There was another pony in there, a unicorn mare entirely focused on her mobile phone.

"Hello," John greeted, trying to make the situation feel less threatening. The mare glanced up at him, "Hi," she replied before returning to her phone.

"What's your name then?"

"Uh… Anthea," she replied, not taking her eyes off the mobile.

"Is that your real name?"

"No," she said with a smirk.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all… John."

* * *

A while later, the coach rumbled into a warehouse. The lights were dim and flickering, but it was enough light to see. A unicorn stallion was waiting for them, his black umbrella leaning casually against his side. This stallion, had black hair neatly combed, a light grey coat, silver-blue eyes, and was wearing a fancy and probably expensive suit. His cutie-mark was a medal, an official government medal one would win for exceptionally good deeds.

There was also a chair in that room, metal, straight backed, chair.

The coach stopped, and John Trottson stepped out. He walked forward, towards the stallion.

"Have a seat John," he said kindly.

"You know, I've got a phone," he said, "You could've just phoned me, on my phone. He walked straight past the chair and stopped a few paces in front of the stallion.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Forelock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," he smiled at John, "The leg must be hurting you, sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John replied stubbornly. The stallion looked at him curiously, "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

"Ah-ha-ha yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" he looked at John sternly, "What is your connection to Forelock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" He thought for a moment, "Yesterday."

"Hmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together, might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Forelock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend Forelock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"And enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." John rolled his eyes, "Thank Celestia you're above all that." Suddenly, John's phone trilled, text message. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the message:

Baker Street.

Come at once

if convenient.

FH

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the stallion said. John pocketed his phone.

"Not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan to continue your association with Forelock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong… But, I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't." The stallion levitated a red leather notebook out of his pocket and opened it.

"If you do happen to move into, uh, two hundred twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of bits on a regular basis to, ease your way." He closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy stallion."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel.. uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him, constantly."

"That's nice of you," John replied sarcastically, _and a little stalker-ish._

"But I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call, a difficult relationship." John's phone went off again, another text from Forelock.

If inconvenient,

come anyway.

FH

John slipped the phone away and looked back up at his captor, "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." The stallion chuckled, "You're very loyal very quickly."

"No I'm not, I'm just not interested on spying on somepony for another I don't even know." The stallion pulled out his notebook once again.

"'Trust issues' it says here," he read.

"Excuse me?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Forelock Holmes of all ponies?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem to be the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?" asked John, annoyed. The stallion looked up from his notebook and met John's eyes, "You tell me." John nodded, then turned, and began to limp back to the coach.

"I imagine ponies have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hoof that's not going to happen." Trottson stopped dead in his tracks, he turned back.

"My what?" he asked, suspicious and defensive.

"Show me," the stallion insisted calmly, nodding towards his good hoof. John planted his hooves and lifted his good one, leaning heavily on the brace for balance. The other stallion walked towards him, swinging his umbrella. When he leaned in for a closer look, John pulled his hoof back defensively. But, eventually, he let the stranger take a look.

"Remarkable," he muttered. John pulled his hoof back and set it on the ground, steadying himself.

"What is?" John asked. The stallion turned and slowly walked away.

"Most ponies blunder around this city, and all they see are shops and coaches. When you walk with Forelock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned back to John, "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hoof?" Trottson demanded.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hoof," the stranger explained, "Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by your time in the Royal Guard."

"Who the hell are you?!" demanded John Trottson, furious, "How do you know that?"

"Fire her," he continued, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and you're completely stable. You're not haunted by the war Doctor Trottson, you miss it." He winked, "Welcome back." Then turned, and walked away, casually swinging his umbrella as he did. John's mobile text signal trilled again.

"Time to choose a side Doctor," the stallion said before vanishing.

"I'm to take you home," Not-Anthea said, she was waiting by the coach, eyes still riveted on her floating mobile phone. John turned, but before he entered the coach; he pulled out his mobile and checked the third and final text from Forelock.

Could be dangerous.

FH

He slipped the phone back and his pocket, and trotted back over.

"Address?" asked Not-Anthea.

"Uh, Baker street," John replied, "Two two one B Baker street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

* * *

He stopped off at the tiny flat he used to live in, had to grab something before he returned to Baker Street, like Forelock had texted, it could be dangerous. John took his old pistol out from its place in the desk drawer and checked the clip. Yes, fully loaded.

After grabbing the gun, and two extra rounds, they headed for Baker Street. Soon, the coach was pulling up in front of the building.

"Listen, your boss- any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" asked John as they stopped.

"Sure," Not-Anthea replied, briefly glancing up from her phone.

"You've told him already haven't you?"

"Yeah." John sighed, then stepped out of the coach. The door was shut immediately and the coach took off, leaving John coughing in a cloud of dust. And when the dust had settled, John Trottson marched right up to the door of 221b Baker Street and knocked briskly.

**Me: and part two is finished. No texts from Sherlock so that's a good sign. Thanks to all of you reading, I can tell this archive isn't very popular unlike everything else. So thank you and until next time.**


	3. Part 3

Forelock Holmes

_A Pony In Pink Part 3_

**Yes, we have reached part three of A Pony In Pink, unbelievable no? Well, for me it is. And I'd like to thank every single person who's read this a thousand times over for just being great.**

**This is where it gets even less rainbows and butterflies and more murder and… Stuff.**

When John Trottson re-entered the flat that he might someday share with Forelock Holmes, he found the very stallion half-asleep on the couch, all jackets off white shirt only. Three white circles were pressed onto his left arm where the sleeve had been rolled up. He sighed rather loudly when John came in.

"What are you doing?" asked John.

"Nicotine patch," Forelock replied calmly, "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in Hoofdon. Bad news for brainwork."

"It's good news for breathing," John said walking further into the flat.

"Meh, breathing, breathing's boring," Forelock said dismissively. John did a quick double take, "Is that, three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem," he replied, hooves pressed together in concentration, eyes still closed. John shuffled his hooves awkwardly, "Well?" Forelock didn't reply.

"You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important." He didn't reply instantly, but after a few seconds he said, "Oh yeah, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized, it's on the website."

"Mrs. River's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs, I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of Hoofdon," John said a bit angrily.

"There was no hurry," Forelock said, oblivious. John rolled his eyes, but he did pull out the smart phone and hold it out. Forelock levitated it out of John's hoof and kept it suspended in the air right above his head. John glared at him for a moment, before turning and walking away, he turned back around.

"So what's this about- the case?" he asked.

"Her case," mumbled the detective.

"Her case?"

"Her suitcase yes," Forelock replied, opening his eyes, "obviously. The murderer took the suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay he took her case, so?"

"It's no use," Forelock whispered, "There's no other way, we'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number," he said, raising his voice and holding out the phone, "I want you to send a text." John stared at him, "You brought me here, to send, a text."

"Text, yes. On my desk, the number." He continued to hold out the phone. John grit his teeth angrily before taking the phone back. Instead of going over to the desk, he stepped over to the window and looked outside. Forelock looked back at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Just met a friend of yours," John replied, dropping the curtain. Forelock frowned in confusion, "A _friend?_"

"An enemy."

"Oh, which one?"

"Your, arch-enemy, according to him." John looked back at Forelock, "Do ponies have arch-enemies?" Forelock was silent for a moment, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he?" asked John.

"The most dangerous stallion you've ever met and not my problem right now," Forelock replied softly, "On my desk, the number." John glared at him, but Forelock was thinking again so he didn't notice. John walked over to the cluttered desk and picked up a small slip of paper with a name and phone number on it.

"Jewel Song," he read, "That was, hang on, wasn't that the dead mare?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." John shook his head, but pulled out his mobile and began to clumsily insert the number with his hooves.

"Are you doing it?" asked Forelock.

"Yes,"

"Have you done it?"

"Ye- hang on!"

"These words exactly, 'What happened at Laurenston Gardens? I must've blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'" John began to type up the text, but stopped.

"You blacked out?" he asked.

"What? No, no!" Forelock rolled off the couch, onto his hooves, climbed over the coffee table rather than around it and trotted into the kitchen.

"Type and send it, quickly," he ordered, picking up a small-ish pink suitcase and dining room chair, levitating them both into the living room.

"Have you sent it?" he asked, flipping the chair around and setting the case on top of it, then sitting down in the chair behind it.

"What's the address?" asked John.

"22 Northumberland Street, hurry up!" Forelock unzipped the suitcase and flipped the lid open; John finished the text and glanced over. His eyes widened in surprise.

"That's… That's the pink mare's case, that's Jewel Song's case," he said.

"Yes, obviously," Forelock replied, studying the case. John continued to stare, Forelock looked up at him and rolled his eyes, "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her." He said sarcastically.

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do ponies usually think you're the murderer?" Forelock smirked, "Now and then, yes." John put his phone away and walked over to the chair opposite of Forelock, he sat down.

"How did you get this?" he asked.

"By looking," Forelock replied.

"Where?"

"The killer must've driven her to Laurenston gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the coach. Nopony could be seen with his case without drawing attention- particularly a stallion which is statistically more likely- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he'd noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken more than five minutes for him to realize his mistake.

"I checked every back street wide enough for a coach five minutes from Laurenston gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink, you got all that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well it had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that?" muttered John.

"Because you're an idiot," Forelock replied. John looked up at him, surprised, Forelock waved his hoof, "No no no, don't take offense to that. Practically everypony is." He gestured to the suitcase, "Now look, do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone, where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one- that's her number you just texted."

"Maybe she left it at home," suggested Trottson.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home," Holmes insisted. John looked at the phone, then back up at Forelock, "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well the question is: where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes, or…?"

"The murderer," he replied slowly, "You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer had her phone," Forelock explained it as if it were elementary mathematics.

"Sorry, what are we doing?" asked John, confused, "Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" Then, as if it were planned, John's phone began to ring. It didn't say what the number was, the caller ID read: Withheld. He looked up at Forelock, who was also watching the mobile.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that could only be from her," he said, "If somepony had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" he paused, the phone stopped ringing, "Would panic." He flipped the case shut and jumped onto his hooves. He walked towards the door, grabbing his suit jacket off the desk chair as he did so.

"Have you talked to the police?" asked John, finally pulling his gaze from the mobile.

"Four ponies are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police," Forelock replied, slipping on his jacket and pulling his greatcoat off the door hook.

"So why're you talking to me?"

"Mrs. River took my skull," he said, tugging on the great coat.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine." John didn't move. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…" he smiled at John, "Problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?" asked Forelock, mildly annoyed.

"She said, you get off on this. You enjoy it," John answered.

"And I said dangerous, and here you are," Holmes replied nonchalantly, he turned and walked out of the flat. John sat there for a moment, thinking.

"Damn it!" he got back onto his hooves and limped out of the flat. A few moments later, he'd caught up with Forelock out on the street.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Northumberland street, five minute walk from here," Forelock replied.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliantly enough. I love the brilliant ones, always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation, applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius John, it needs an audience."

"Yeah…" Forelock spun around, trotting backwards, searching behind them.

"This is his hunting ground, right here, in the heart of the city," Forelock said, "Now that we know his victims were abducted that changes everything. Because his victims disappeared off the busy streets, crowded places, but nopony saw them go." He turned back around walking the correct way.

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Forelock asked, eyes darting around as if searching.

"I dunno, who?" asked John. Forelock shrugged, "Haven't the foggiest. Hungry?"

"What?" Forelock, with John in tow, walked into a nearby restaurant and right into a seat by the window. Forelock shrugged off his jacket and scarf then slid into the booth. John sat down next to him, and he undid the brace around his front hoof, setting it beside him. Forelock stared out the window, "Twenty-two Northumbeland street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just going to ring the bell is he? He'd need to be mad," John said.

"He has just killed four ponies."

"Point taken." A server walked up, he smiled when he saw the detective.

"Forelock," he said happily.

"Yes, hello Angelo," they shook hooves.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free of charge," Angelo said, handing them both a menu, "On the house, for you and your date."

"I'm not his date," John corrected.

"This stallion got me off a murder charge," Angelo said.

"Yes, three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularily vicious tripled murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of Hoofdon, house-breaking," Forelock added, setting the menu down and continuing to watch the street.

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit." He nodded outside, "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo replied, (to John) "If not for this stallion, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Forelock corrected.

"I'll get a candle, it's more romantic," Angelo turned and left.

"I'm not his date!" John said for a second time.

"You may as well eat, we might have a long wait." It was kind of a long wait, nopony at the table spoke for a good fifteen minutes.

"Ponies don't have arch-enemies," John said suddenly. Forelock glanced at him, "What?"

"In real life, there are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" asked Forelock, still searching outside the window, "Sounds a bit dull."

"Then who'd I meet?"

"What do real ponies have in their, 'real live'?"

"Friends, ponies they know, ones they like ones they don't like. Mare-friends, boyfriends."

"Yes well, as I was saying, dull."

"You don't have a mare-friend then?"

"Mare-friend? No, not really my area."

"Ah… D'you have a boyfriend then?" Forelock look at John sharply, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So… You've got a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Right, okay," John said, smiling awkwardly, "you're unattached, like me." Forelock glanced back out the window, and then he replayed John's awkward conversation in his head. The result startled him. Forelock looked back at John.

"John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm-"

"No, no, I'm not asking no," John interrupted, stopping Forelock's awkward speech, "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Good, thank you." He turned back to the window. Forelock nudged John's hoof, "Look across the street, Taxi." John turned and looked out.

"Stopped, nopony getting in nopony getting out." In the rear seat was a stallion wearing some kind of hat, he looked back at them.

"Why a taxi?" asked Forelock, rapid fire, "Oh, that's clever. Is he clever? Why is he clever?"

"That's him?" asked John.

"Don't stare," warned Forelock.

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare." Holmes grabbed his things and ran out of the café. Trottson followed him, forgetting his hoof brace in the booth. Outside, the taxi coach was still idling at the curb, Forelock was keeping his eyes trained on it as he shrugged on his jacket. The passenger glanced behind at them before turning forward and the coach pulling away. Forelock began to gallop after him, not bothering to check the road. Another stallion nearly ran into the detective, who merely jumped over him.

John apologized to the stallion then ran after Forelock. The coach turned a corner up ahead and they stopped.

"I've got the cab number."

"Good for you," Forelock closed his eyes, and calculated the route of the cab. "Right turn one way roadwork traffic lights bus lane pedestrian crossing left turn only traffic lights." He opened his eyes and took off running again. John had to run as fast as pony-ily possible to keep up with the unicorn. Forelock turned into a nearby alley, knocking another pony out of the way. John apologized briefly then ran into the alley as well. They raced up a spiral staircase, onto the roof top, down another staircase, over the side rail, zig-zagged between a network of air conditioners, across an alley way to the other rooftop- John stopped.

He couldn't make the jump.

"Come on John!" called Forelock, "We're losing them!" He took a few steps back, galloped up to the edge, and leap, clearing it with ease. He landed on a walkway along the side of a building. Down another staircase, into an alley way on the ground. Their paths were about to cross with the coach, but it passed in front of them on the road, speeding past.

"No!" They exited the alley, "This way!", Forelock turned left while John tried to follow the coach.

"No this way!"

"Sorry!" Down more side-streets and alleys, past a park, through a small neighborhood, and when they burst out of the fifth alley, Forelock crashed straight into the cabby. He leapt back onto his hooves and pulled something out of his pocket, "Police! Open her up!" Panting heavily, he pulled the door of the coach open, just as John joined him. The stallion inside was in fact, not the one they were looking for.

"No," groaned Holmes, "Teeth, tan, what- Canterlot?" He glanced at the luggage, "Yeah, Canterlot, just arrived."

"How can you possibly know that?" asked John, out of breath.

"The luggage," Forelock groaned, he turned to the passenger, "It's probably your first trip to Hoofdon, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" asked the passenger, confused.

"Yeah," he flashed the ID briefly, "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," the passenger replied, smiling. Forelock paused, unsure how to finish.

"Welcome to Hoofdon," he said finally, walking off. John stepped up, "Uh, any problems, just let us know." The stallion nodded, John smiled, shut the door, and walked over to Forelock.

"Basically a cab that happened to slow down," he said.

"Basically."

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no," Holmes replied angrily.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go." John looked back at the ID card Forelock was holding in his magic.

"Hey, where-where did you get this?" he asked, taking the card, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah, I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat." John nodded, glanced at the card again, then chuckled.

"What?" asked Forelock.

"Nothing," John replied, "just, 'Welcome to Hoofdon'." Forelock chuckled as well, then he looked down the road and saw the passenger from the coach talking with a policeman.

"Got your breath back?" he asked. John smirked, "Ready when you are." They turned and galloped off down the road.

* * *

They arrived at 221b out of breath and smiling like idiots.

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John said, leaning against the wall. Forelock hung his coat on the stair banister and joined him.

"That was the most, ridiculous thing, I have ever done," John said chuckling.

"And you joined the army," the both laughed.

"Yeah well that wasn't just me. Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway," Forelock replied, serious once again.

"So what were we doing there?" asked John.

"Oh, just passing the time," he glanced at Trottson, "and proving a point."

"What point?"

"You," he turned and called out: "Mrs. River! Doctor Trottson will take the room upstairs!"

"Says who?"

"Says the stallion at the door." There were three brisk knocks, John glanced at Forelock before walking over and answering the door. Angelo stood outside, dressed in a large black coat and hat.

"Forelock texted me," he explained, holding up John's forgotten hoof brace, "He said you forgot this." John took the clunky thing, he glanced back at Forelock, who just smiled.

"Uh, thank you, thanks," John turned back into 221b and shut the door. Just then Mrs. River came out of her flat.

"Forelock what have you done?" she asked, scared.

"Mrs. River?"

"Upstairs." Forelock immediately turned and galloped up the stairs John followed him, they burst into the flat and found DI Lestrade reclining in one of the chairs. Other officers were searching through Forelock's items.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Well I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid," Lestrade replied.

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well what do you call this then?" Lestrade looked around before replying, "It's a drugs bust."

"Seriously?!" asked John, "This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

"John…"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"John you probably want to shut up."

"Yeah but come on." Forelock glared at him.

"No."

"What?"

"_You?_"

"Shut up," he turned back to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Bunsen's my sniffer dog," the DI replied, nodding towards the kitchen. The Doors slid open, Bunsen raised a hoof in greeting, smirking.

"What are you doing here on a drugs bust?" demanded Forelock.

"Oh I volunteered," Bunsen replied.

"They all did," Lestrade added, "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad but they're very keen."

"Are these pony eyes?" asked Sergeant Sally Donovan, showing a glass jar.

"Put those back!" cried Forelock.

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment."

"Keep looking guys," called Lestrade getting to his hooves, "Forelock, you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Forelock groaned.

"Well I'm dealing with a child. Forelock this is our case, I'm letting you but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

"Oh, what s-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

"I am clean!"

"Is your flat?"

"I don't even smoke." He pushed up his sleeve revealing a nicotine patch.

"Neither do I," Lestrade replied, doing the same. "We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" asked Forelock, his anger replaced by intrigue.

"Jewel Song's only daughter." Forelock frowned.

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Nevermind that," said Bunsen from the other room "We found the case. According to somepony, the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hooves of our favorite psychopath." Forelock glanced back a Bunsen, "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath do your research." He turned back to Lestrade, "You need to bring Rachel in and question her, I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade interrupted.

"Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"Well I doubt it, since's she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. **Rachel,** was Jewel Song's still born filly fourteen years ago." Forelock stared at Lestrade, confused.

"No that's, that's not right. Why would she do that, why?"

"Why would she think about her filly in her last moments?" asked Bunsen sarcastically, "Yep, sociopath, seeing it now."

"She didn't just think about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor, with her hooves. She was dying, it took effort, it would've hurt." The consulting detective started to pace again.

"You said that the victims took the poison themselves," John suggested, "That he makes them takes it. Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her filly somehow." Forelock stopped and turned to him, "Yeah but that was ages ago, why would she still be upset?" John stared at him, Forelock hesitated. Everypony had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him. He looked awkwardly at John, "Not good?"

"A bit not good yeah."

"Yeah, but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds what would you say?"

"Please somepony help me."

"Oh use your imagination!"

"I don't have to." Forelock paused for a moment, before shaking it off and continuing.

"Yeah but if you were clever, _really_ clever. Jewel Song, running all those lovers? She was clever." He began to pace the room again, "She's trying to tell us something." Mrs. River came to the door, "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi, go away," he said impatiently. She looked around the room.

"Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" she asked.

"It's a drugs bust Mrs. River," John explained. Forelock stopped pacing, "SHUT UP! Everypony shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think! Bunsen, look the other way you're putting me off."

"What my face is?"

"Everypony quiet and hold still, Bunsen, turn your back," ordered Lestrade.

"Oh for Celestia's-"

"YOUR BACK!"

"Come on, think, quick," Forelock muttered.

"What about your taxi?"

"MRS. RIVER!" cried Forelock furiously. She turned and hurried away from the doorway. Forelock stopped, "oh." He smiled, "Ah, she was clever, clever yes!" He turned back to the others, "She was cleverer than you lot and she's dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone she planted it on him!" He started to pace again, "When she got out of the car she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" asked Lestrade. Fore lock stopped and looked at the DI, "Wha? What do you mean how?" the DI shrugged.

"Rachel!" Forelock replied excitedly. Everypony stared at him blankly.

"Don't you see? RACHEL!" They still looked at him. Forelock chuckled in disbelief, "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be sooo relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Then what is it?" asked John.

"John, on the case, there's a tag. E-mail address." John glanced at the tag, "Uh, jewlie dot pink at mephone dot org dot UK." Forelock nodded, reached over to the desk and pulled out a mini laptop.

"Oh I've been to slow. She didn't have a laptop which means she did her business on her phone so it'a smart phone, e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account, the username was her email address and, altogether now, her password is?"

"Rachel," Trottson said, putting it together and walking up behind the unicorn detective.

"So we can read her emails? What use is that?" asked Bunsen.

"Bunsen, don't talk. You lower the IQ of the whole street," Forelock said exasperatedly. "We can do much more than that, it's a smartphone, has GPS, which means you can locate it if it gets lost. She's leading us directly to the stallion who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade said.

"We know he didn't," replied John.

"Come on, come on, hurry," Forelock said impatiently, tapping his hooves on the desk. Mrs. River trotted back up the stairs, "Forelock, this Taxi driver…" Holmes got to his hooves and trotted over to herm "Mrs. River isn't it time for your evening soother?" before turning to the DI. John took his place at the desk, dropping that annoying brace beside the chair. A clock spun idly on the computer screen as it worked, but after a few minutes, it turned into a map and zoomed in on the location.

"Forelock…"

"What is it? Quickly, where?"

"It's here… It's in two two one B Baker Street." Forelock looked around confusedly, "How can it be here? _How?_"

"Well maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out," Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice it? _Me?_ I, didn't, notice?"

"Anyway, we texted and he called back," explained John, starting the search again. Lestrade called to the others, relaying the message of the missing mobile. Forelock shook his head, trying to drown out the noise around him. He needed to think, remember. Something was missing, what? He remembered talking to John earlier, asking things like: "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?"

Something was still missing, the taxi. Something about that was nagging, "Why a taxi?"

"_Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_" A taxi, could be anywhere, hailed by anypony. Maybe Jewel Song, or Lickity Split, or Cloudy Wind, or even New Deal. A Taxi, and standing the in the doorway behind mrs. River, unnoticed by anypony but Mrs. River, was a thin stallion wearing old clothes and a taxi liscense. He pulled a pink phone out of his pocket, and pressed send.

Forelock's own phone trilled as the taxi driver turned and left. The unicorn levitated it out of his pocket and read the text, _come with me._ It read simply. HE shook out of his daze, and started walking out the door.

"Forelock? You okay?" called John after him.

"What? Yeah, yeah I'm fine," the detective replied, not even turning round.

"So, how can the phone be here?"

"Dunno."

"I'll try again, wait, where are you going?"

"Fresh air," Forelock replied grabbing his jacket, "Just popping outside. Won't be a moment."

"Are you sure you're alright?" asked the doctor.

"I'm fine!"

**Me: I know I know, nag about the long time between updates. Life has prevented me from giving time to this. I'm risking my other stories by doing this. **

**But otherwise, enjoy! And tell me if I made a mistake because I need people to do that.**


End file.
